


Fluorescent Under These Lights

by daddychilton



Category: Fargo (2014)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Blood and Gore, Body Paint, Glitter, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-08 22:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1958634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daddychilton/pseuds/daddychilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrench & Numbers' find themselves in a club for their next target. Lots of blood, lots of body paint, and lots of glitter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fluorescent Under These Lights

The bass thrummed through Wrench as he followed Numbers through the backdoors of the club heading for the manager’s office. He gripped the kerambit knife in his belt, the claw-like blade barely in its sheath. He was ready for anything.

The hallway was grimy with mold—it seemed to be growing out of every crevice. The wood paneling was incredibly outdated; deer and eagles and a wolf every other panel stared back at them. The shag carpet was fraying.

Money from an old bar with old owners poured into a new club under new management.

They both had a machete strapped against their sides. The instructions were to be quiet and bloody. Messy—real messy. Numbers and Wrench didn’t think the dancing bodies in the club would be able to hear the boom of guns over the bass, but they didn’t want to take the chance. The idea was to get in there, annihilate the target (one club manager named James Creevy), and hang around. God knew they needed a vacation.

Numbers motioned for Wrench to stop halfway down the hallway. A broad-shouldered bodyguard with a widening middle-aged gut stood outside what seemed to be Creevy’s office. A nameplate confirmed it.

Wrench stepped around Numbers without making a sound. They were behind the bodyguard – the perfect angle for a surprise attack. Wrench pulled the kerambit from its sheath, and in one swift motion the bodyguard’s insides were spilled in front of him. He didn’t have time to scream; the knife slashed his jugular, and he was down in seconds, the shock barely registering in his eyes before he uttered his last breath.

The kerambit had nicked the intestines, and the hallway had instantly reeked of shit.

Numbers came around the corner, smiling at his partner’s kill.

“Nice,” Numbers signed.

“Thanks.” At least they never had to talk. It made the jobs easier.

Wrench pulled the bodyguard’s body out of the way as best he could. A trail of blood and guts followed the body where it slid.

Numbers was next to the doorknob, machete drawn. Wrench kept the kerambit out, saving the machete for later. If he’d even need it, that is.

Wrench looked at Numbers and signed, “Let’s do this and get out of here.”

Numbers nodded and Wrench kicked the door open.

The manager was alone with his dick in his hands. His computer glowed brightly on his face. His mouth opened in an O as the door slammed into the wall. He managed to stand before Numbers was behind him, before Numbers had severed his throat to the point James Creevy’s head was hanging down his back by thin strips of skin. Wrench hadn’t moved after kicking the door open – there was no need.

The boom of the bass shook through them again, but aside from that all was silent. They hadn’t been heard.

A few drops of blood fell from Wrench’s buckskin jacket. It would have to come off before the stuck around.

They made their way outside and to the 1995 Ford Pinto where Wrench and Numbers stored their coats. The knives they kept, both of them snugly sheathed in their waistbands.

They both wore jeans, sneakers and black V-necks.

Numbers took a look at Wrench and signed, “You look good, man. Got a little blood on your face though.” He took his thumb in his mouth and wiped the blood spatter from Wrench’s cheek.

“Thanks,” Wrench signed with a smile, sticking his tongue out a little at the corner of his mouth.

Back in the club the music was booming, with sweaty bodies pressing Wrench and Numbers closer together. Neon body paint and glitter was everywhere; Numbers had somehow gotten some green and blue on his face and in his beard. It glowed bright under the black lights, and Wrench couldn’t help but laugh his deep laugh.

Their bodies vibrated with the music and they pulsed in rhythm with the others, like they were cells pumping through arteries belonging to the heart of the room.

They almost felt more alive beneath the black lights and the neon and the fluttering glitter than they had cutting Creevy and his bodyguard down. Almost.

Wrench’s big hand seized Numbers’ throat. Their lips found each other, and they stopped moving. They breathed into each other. Numbers’ hand went to Wrench’s stubbly cheek and his tongue between Wrench’s teeth. Their heart rates quickened and they could each feel the other getting hard.

The bass dropped and everyone around them began to jump in sync with the beat. Paint splattered across Wrench, and he pulled away from Numbers and smiled. He grabbed his hand and they began to jump too. Their free hands found the air, and they could finally breathe easily. They had each other, and their bones felt as light as a bird’s.

The song was over, and before the next had a chance to start, Wrench was pulling Numbers toward the edge of the crowd. Numbers barely had a chance to recognize they were in the bathroom before Wrench had his head cradled in his hands. He’d locked the bathroom and pulled Numbers into another kiss in the same swift motion. Wrench couldn’t hear a lot, but he knew the music was still playing, and he knew it was still loud.

The bathroom was full; how they’d gotten a stall to themselves was beyond Numbers. He could hear a group of men and women snorting cocaine in the stall next to them. He wondered why they hadn’t done a hit of something, but decided it didn’t matter. The lips he was kissing were better than ecstasy, better than heroin. Wrench’s lips were alcoholic: thick and rich and full of promise at what was to come next.  He wanted to drown in them.

Wrench pressed him into the wall and stuck one hand down Numbers’ pants, careful to avoid the sheathed kerambit as he grabbed hold of what he really wanted.

 He saw Numbers’ mouth pout into an O, and he knew he’d found his mark.

Numbers’ teeth caught Wrench’s tongue and a soft hiss slipped through Wrench’s pressed lips.

Wrench tugged a little harder, sending Numbers mewling against the wall, clawing at Wrench’s back as if that would make him stop, even though he didn’t want him to. Wrench’s free hand gently took Numbers’ hairy throat, and he could feel each breath Numbers took pass from mouth to lungs and the carbon dioxide that escaped him. He could feel it all, and the power behind it had him hard. It would only take one squeeze with his bear paw of a hand.

Numbers was moaning, deep and guttural – the vibrations struck Wrench’s palm with such a force he thought he could almost hear him. He knew it was nothing more than an illusion, but he kissed Numbers hungrily, catching Numbers’ lips with his teeth as he pulled away, his other hand still in motion below.  

He turned Numbers around and helped him get his pants down around his ankles, and after he got his own down. Wrench put a hand around Numbers’ head and stuck his index and middle fingers in his mouth, wetting them to the webbing. He felt the bumps of Numbers’ tongue run over them, and Wrench closed his eyes for a second. He pulled them from his mouth and pressed him up against the wall, and stuck his index finger inside him, curving it slightly. He pulled it out and pushed it back in; Numbers’ squirmed against the wall, sweat popping up along his forehead. Wrench stuck his middle finger in him both fingers scissoring his asshole, and Number slammed his head against the wall, eyes closed, quickly signing, “I’m ready. Do it, fucking do it now.” He pulled both fingers out and smiled. He hocked and spit in his hand, then rubbed his cock up and down. Numbers groaned, and Wrench lined up behind him and gently pushed himself in.

Right before he was completely inside, he smiled, then thrust himself into Numbers. He pumped in and out, and both of them were breathing hard; Wrench wished he could still have a hand around Numbers’ throat. It was all happening too fast – the orgasm was coming with such a force that neither of them could contain it. They came together, growling their guttural moans like animals, Numbers’ cum splattering against the stall’s wall. Wrench’s chest rose and fell against Numbers’ back for a heartbeat before he slid out of him and sat on the toilet seat.

They were silent for a moment, until Numbers pulled Wrench up by his collar and kissed him, his beard scratching Wrench’s jaw red.

When he let go, he noticed the neon body paint had rubbed off of him and onto Wrench – how, he wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t help himself from laughing. It was all over his face and neck. They were covered in cum and glitter and body paint, and neither of them could keep a straight face.

“I love you,” Numbers signed.

Wrench smirked, then signed, “I love you too.”

The music boomed outside. Numbers had almost forgotten it was that loud.

They pulled their pants up, checking that their knives were still strapped securely and kissed softly, one last time, before leaving the bathroom and back into the throng of jiving bodies. They could stand to disappear for a few more hours before leaving for their next hit.


End file.
